Together Is Better
by SusieCues
Summary: This is AU, unless the good doctor really does make it back.


Here's hoping Rachel turns up...

* * *

He was back; nothing felt more natural in this vastly unnatural world. The crew needed him, and he needed them, like in the past. His heart burned, on fire, within him as worry for his XO rose up. Tom's eyes homed in, fixed upon the horizon, focused on the sun soon to set, here on the bridge of the _Nathan James_. As he sat in the seat of command, savoring familiar sensations in an effort to dispel the anxiety of what lay ahead, a peaceful languor enveloped him. His ship would not be leaving these unfriendly waters any time soon. Not as long as _his_ kidnapped people were prisoners of this most recent unknown enemy.

Decisive, ire-filled thoughts about nailing Peng to a wall overflowed in his mind. The man had a 'dictator-wish,' not fooling Tom for a second. He was a man who saw himself running the Far East, allowing no one to stand in his way. _Emperor Peng Wu_ , Tom muttered softly, with a sneer. "Not if I have a thing or two to say about it." That power-hungry despot had another thing coming, he mulled, thinking back to the recent dinner that had been enshrouded in a climate of mutual distrust and lightly-veiled posturing, and threats thinly-concealed.

When they'd met privately, on the hotel balcony shortly afterward, the atmosphere had scarcely been any different. Wu was bent on securing ultimate control for himself; Tom was certain of that. All the cultured smiling in the world didn't hide the fact.

His Chinese wasn't all that rusty, just faulty around the edges.

Wu was corrupt, hoarding the cure, keeping it far from virus-ravaged populations, to further his self-serving, evil ends. Fire in Tom's eyes burned passionately, melding with his determination to bring the warlord in diplomatic clothing down. Oh, he was. All in good time, he thought, his breathing altering, evening out, slowing down.

"Team effort," he muttered, concentrating on their exact location for the rendezvous. How many times did this make pinching himself?

The corners of Tom's eyes crinkled as they remained pinned, scanning the wavy fine line of the fuzzy, darkening horizon. Absently, his blue camo-sheathed arm lazily went its way out to the side in the direction of the nearest counter where his Navy mug sat. His fingers made contact with it and much to his liking, he felt his coffee was still decently warm. As he sipped, he continued to mull, cerebrally sifting through bits and pieces from Michener's latest debriefing. Why had the POTUS waited all this time, letting too much of it pass before he'd exploded the bombshell? He'd suffered in silence, and the suffering had nearly dragged him under into an abyss of his tortured mind's cruel making.

As his subtly-tanned forehead furrowed, Tom heaved a heavy sigh. He downed a spot more coffee all the while telling himself that having the news now was better than never having it at all. He wasn't used to thanking emergencies, but he'd make an exception in this case.

Searing anger, which he had never apologized for, spooned with jubilation woven with relief.

He could breathe again without dying inside, the way he'd felt since the day he'd been told _she_ had died. Rachel, ripped from his life, stolen from him! First Darien, now—now _his_ Rachel. His heart leaped like a broad jumper in his chest that was still sore from the battering he'd sustained owed to his latest brush with mortal combat. Though he wasn't old, not by a long shot, was he too old for getting his keister handed to him, after being soundly kicked, on a regular basis? He wasn't in love with having a desk job, but life and death, knock-down drag out fights weren't his idea of riding the gravy train.

He told himself to can the complaining. This was his lot, his burden. His people were counting on him, wherever they were…Mike, Garnett, Jeter, Diaz, Miller, Mason…they had to be alive, still. They just had to be.

His smile, rueful, he thought about his book of coupon rations hidden beneath the pillow of his bunk. Well, certainly for her, he'd wage World War III, armed with stones and a slingshot. No more fingering her inanimate, little likeness with the pad of his right index finger before he went to bed, or whenever he needed to feel close to her. He was done with that because…

Tom got all choked up, his eyes forcibly awash in tears. His face hot, and neck too under the collar. His fingers would soon caress the real thing; his lips would mesh with hers and make things right in his world. His beautiful, quirky, entrancing, personal wonder woman, with a backbone of steel, lived! He thanked God, his belief stronger than ever, and lightweight Kevlar body armor for her preservation.

His lodestar was set to arrive at…he checked his Navy watch with etched dial, seeing that her TOA was imminent. He searched the sky, beyond the bridge's large windows, with its high clouds and their silvery-gray-blue linings. His eyes worked like crazy, alit with excitement. The pit of his stomach, tied in knots, quivered under the strain.

All at once, an urgent, "Sir," hit his ears.

"Yes, Lieutenant Burk?" Setting his mug down, Tom was a portrait of reserve and command, imagining the black ops helo having taken off from Wake island with its precious cargo. Cargo he pulsed over, ached to be alone with her, as they'd been before she'd sashayed away in that tasty, lacy black dress, throwing demur looks of invitation over her sirenic shoulder, making sure he still was looking…at her. What had he been thinking, not escorting her to her room?

If he'd gone with her…

Like having icy cold water thrown in his face, he snapped himself out of the unexpected reverie, reminding himself that the President had had a bigger picture in mind when he'd pardoned her, relieving her of the guard detail shadowing her. If he had walked her to her room, he would have beaten her assailant black, blue and bloody. And risked compromising national security, according to the new POTUS flexing his muscles for size.

What if the immune had fired on her head? Was his life reduced to this? A frantic streaming of gut-churning scenarios without cessation? What was new about that? These maddening mind-trips were standard for the grist of this world's reality. _If_ she had died, Tom wouldn't be champing at the bit, heady with delirium, moments away from welcoming her back to where she truly belonged, by his side.

Lt. T.A.O. C. Burk, unspeakably thankful for his brother's safe return from what had mutated into one steroidal rollercoaster suicide mission, responded just as crisply, "The helo's arrival time is less than one minute, Captain." Carlton's leg had been saved, again, thank God.

If his heart kept skipping beats like this, a diagnosis of arrhythmia was in Tom's future. He sprang to his feet, intent on leaving the bridge like a jackrabbit, aiming himself at the hatch. There was no way he wouldn't be the first person she saw as she embarked. She, _his_ Rachel, the only person he had waited months, more like years, to lay eyes on. Until he saw her for himself, he would continue to be a man possessed. And once he did see her, he'd continue to be such, irrevocably possessed by her.

It could never be any other way; not now, not _ever_.

If she still wanted him, in every sense of those words, he'd be hers, for as long as they both lived. She richly deserved so much more than the hard time he'd given her when he'd been that destructive, haunted man, bent on proving how meritorious and honorable he was, the all-knowing, all-conquering _Captain_ with a capital c. He had been hell-bent, demanding she admit how irresponsible she'd been for doing away with evil incarnate because _he_ thought so. No leeway allowed.

His myopic grasp of things at the time had done great harm, to himself, his crew, but most of all to _her_. Now, all he felt was grateful.

Indebted to her; he'd always be that. No longer that sinking ship, lost at sea. She lived…so would he.

She was aboard, like a fixture upon the deck, in her uniform, a form-fitting flight jacket over an off-white T-shirt and hip-hugging jeans, gently faded. Her footwear was a stylish variation of jackboots. Ducking, as she made her way from the helo, with wind-whipped hair, flanging out in every conceivable direction, Rachel held his gaze. Tom was a man transfixed. A bewitched seaman, falling hopelessly in love once again with this ravishing woman of flesh and blood, with iron inlaid with steel in her soul, for good measure.

Protocol was not on his side. He was expected to greet her with decorum, with back ramrod straight, eyes neutral, save for a little smile that had its hands full trying to prevent a great big one, straining to break out. That species of smile burst into his eyes as when, she, a civilian, despite the magnitude of her celebrity, opened her arms wide. She waited. Waited for Tom, waiting for him, to fill them. It wasn't a matter of him humoring her, as he did so, willingly, completely. He was her safe port, her sheltering harbor, completing him.

She was his lifeboat, saving him from foundering. This was destiny at its finest. They, moored in each other, as it should be.

With her mouth crushed against his ear, Rachel breathed, "I missed you frightfully. If I'd been permitted, which it wasn't, I would have reached out to you. I was sequestered someplace mega-secret, a disused military installation, deep in the Colorado hills. They called it Cheyenne Mountain, or some such. A massive complex. Talk about my existence being top-secret. _I_ became one, to be sure. The top-est."

"Oh, yeah." How incredibly right this was. As his hands slid down her torso to settle around her waist, he plunged his nose into her hair, which smelled of a pine forest in springtime, and replied, "No more taking lone walks down empty hallways. That's an order. Say hello to your new personal guard."

She thought she'd rise to his true-to-form dry wit baiting, but on the verge of replying, he swept her off her feet, into his arms, and twirled them around the deck to the tune of their impulsive, abandoned laughter. When she was able to finally push out, "Take me to my laboratory, if you please, Captain, my Captain. There's no time to waste bringing to bear this surprising development with the virus."

Burying his eager lips in her warm, supple cheek, he chided, "Yeah, yeah. You'll get to that. But, first, my dear…" As his mellow voice trailed, she stole his bated breath away, he seeing her eyes shine as they danced. "I'm taking you to dinner. Hungry?"

"Famished!" Rachel fairly squealed, her mouth watering, more than ready to tuck into some of Bacon's specialties, she knew prepared especially for her. A homecoming extravaganza of sorts.

Making haste, he ran from the deck as crew members saluted, with her securely in his arms. "Rachel…"

"Yes, Tom?"

His knees buckled having heard her say his name all light and airy like that, her special way. Heart-robbing in its heart throbbing intensity. "Would you object if I took my being your personal guard to the next level?"

"What level did you have in mind?" she queried, the mock-wary twist in her tone pert.

Said with a stone-serious face matched with a shaky voice, he asked, "Consent to becoming my wife?"

Shaking her head, then nodding with abandon, she gushed in a very Rachel-esque way, "I'd begun wondering just when you were going to ask."

As she covered his face with kisses, he hoarsely croaked, "Give a dumb guy, like me, who gets another chance at getting it right this time, a chance to kiss his girl properly, for goodness sake." Not saying another word, he did, thoroughly, and Rachel went limp in his arms, a picture of bliss.

She did her fair share of reciprocating as the _Nathan James_ continued to slip through the darkening sea, cruising onward, leaving indefatigable hope coupled with raw courage in its wake.

"I'll take that as a 'yes,'" Tom wheezed, 'over the moon,' as she was wont to say, with a full moon beginning to peek out from behind a moon-illuminated cloud.

Pecking his nose, thrusting at her irresistibly, she razzed, "You'd better."


End file.
